Of Windmills and War (45 page)

The pub
door flew open as a couple of MPs entered. “There they are,” one of them said
pointing to Danny and Charlie.

“Sirs,”
the MPs saluted.

Danny
and Charlie stood and returned their salute. “What is it, Sergeant?” Charlie
asked.

“Special
called briefing on base at 1300 hours. All 3rd Air Division officers are
required to attend by order of Colonel Moller. We’re rounding up everyone who’s
off-base. Just now spotted your Jeep outside.”

Charlie
checked his watch. “At 1300? That’s thirty minutes from now. We better move
out.”

The MPs
saluted then quickly departed.

“What
was that all about?” Patrick asked, wiping his hands on his bib apron.

“Meeting
on base. Gotta run,” Danny said, putting his flight jacket back on.

“Sorry,
sweetheart,” Charlie said, pulling Sophie close to his side. “I’ll be back as
soon as I can.”

“TEN-HUT!”

“At
ease.”

The
usual shuffling filled the room as the 390th officers
took
their seats. Up on the platform, Colonel Moller stood at the podium as Colonel
Waltz took a seat.

“Gentlemen,
as you know, our combat missions have concluded with the imminent fall of
Germany
. We
expect that to occur any day now. And while we have not yet declared victory in
the European Theater, we are standing down from any further missions—”

A rowdy
cheer broke out as the men cheered and whistled.

When
the celebratory noise settled down, he added, “—except for one last mission.”

A
communal groan waved through the room.

“However,
this mission is like no other. This is a mission of mercy. At the directive of
General Eisenhower in cooperation with our English Allies, food drops will commence
today in the occupied western portion of The Netherlands to aid more than three
million Dutch who are starving, thanks to their German occupiers.”

Charlie
elbowed him as Danny sat up straighter.
A food drop in
Holland
?

“As you
know, in retaliation for
Holland
’s part in last September’s
Operation Market-Garden, the Germans cut off all shipments into
Holland
. The
resulting ‘Hunger Winter’ that followed led to extreme hardships on the Dutch,
including widespread starvation. Even aid coming in from
Sweden
’s Red
Cross was primarily hoarded by the German occupiers. Meaning, many of the Dutch
have no food, no electricity, no fuel, and no hope unless we intervene.”

Danny
didn’t need to hear Colonel Moller’s assessment of the situation. He’d been
there. He remembered the old lady at the Enschede safe house who had eaten his
leftovers. He’d tasted the onion-like tulip bulbs and remembered well the
symbolism of such a desperate thing. And he remembered the feel of Anya in his
arms—her thin, fragile body without an ounce of fat, the feel of her cheekbone
against his palm as he caressed her face. His hands fisted at the thought of
all she and everyone in her country had endured.

Moller
continued. “The situation is now so critical, General Eisenhower has ordered us
to proceed immediately instead of waiting for the official end of the war,
however close that may be. Apparently the remaining German divisions in western
Holland
have
no intention of surrendering and as a final desperate effort, they have cut off
all remaining supply lines by blowing up dikes, mining the canals, and flooding
the lowlands. Our only recourse is by air.

“Several
heavy bomber groups of the RAF will take part in these missions, primarily the
Lancasters. They have dubbed this
Operation Manna
. As for the Eighth Air
Force, the entire 3rd Air Division comprised of ten bomber units will
participate. For our part, we have named this mission
Operation Chowhound.

“The British
began flying their mercy missions today. Due to our dense ground fog here, we are
not able to join them. God willing, we’ll be wheels up first thing tomorrow
morning. And now Colonel Waltz will detail the missions you will be flying.”

As
Moller traded places with Waltz, the latter stepped up to the podium. “Gentlemen,
in compliance of the agreement, the drops will be made in specified locations during
daylight hours. You will fly at one-thousand feet or lower, dropping your cargo
on white crosses which will be laid out at specified locations.

“After
negotiations with Reichskommissar Seyss-Inquart, it has been agreed upon that
Allied planes taking part in the drops will not be fired upon.”

“Might
as well put a target on our bellies,” Charlie mumbled. “Jerry’s not about to
miss an easy shot like that.” Others made similar comments under their breath.

As if
reading their thoughts, Colonel Waltz continued. “Of course, no one takes
Seyss-Inquart at his word. That is why extreme measures are in place through
the agreement prohibiting all participating aircraft from being fired upon while
flying to and from these drop zones—most of which are in abandoned airfields or
open field areas.”

Danny
tried to imagine such a thing. The huge Flying Fortresses, flying so low to the
ground, unleashing all manner of food to be rained down on the ground. Even at
low altitude, how would such cargo not be destroyed on impact? He thought of
all those starving Dutch people and imagined them running out as the food dropped
from their planes. With German soldiers standing around?

“The
Reichskommissar has been told in no uncertain terms that
Germany
will
be wiped off the face of the earth if they do not comply.”

Danny
blinked, wondering how the colonel seemed to know his thoughts.

“Since
these will be our last missions in the European Theater, General Doolittle has authorized
our flights to include ground personnel as passengers to allow these hard
working men to get a first-hand look at what they’ve been a part of. Assignments
will be listed and posted at Operations.

“Finally,
gentlemen, I would ask you to understand this operation for what it is. The
aircraft you fly were built as vehicles of destruction, a means to fight a war against
unspeakable atrocities committed on innocent lives. Now you will have the
opportunity to use these same vehicles to deliver a message of hope, good-will,
and in some cases, life itself. Do not dismiss the significance of what you do.
Those are real people down there—men, women, and children—who will go on to
live their lives because you made a final gesture of benevolence on their
behalf.

“Godspeed.
That is all.”

61

02 May 1945

Word of the successful Manna missions by the British had
inspired the men of the 390th, but such reports also made them anxious to get
across the Pond and do their part. Tales of the
Lancasters
, some
flying as low as fifty feet from the ground at drop points, spoke of the
powerful British planes barely skimming tree tops before dropping their
precious loads. Such thoughts should have made him nervous, but Danny just
wanted to get up in the air and take his turn. Unfortunately he had to wait a
few days.

The ever-dependable soupy skies over Framlingham kept the
B-17s of the 390th grounded for two full days. Located so close to the coast,
their base was socked in where many of the others, including those of the
Brits, had clear skies.

At Charlie’s request, Danny was assigned to his crew for the
Chowhound missions. With his foot healed up enough to carry out his duties as
co-pilot, Danny couldn’t wait to get back in the cockpit. Especially for a cause
so near and dear to his heart. He had only to think of Anya to put a face on
the despair of the Dutch which Colonel Waltz had so poignantly described.

When the weather finally cooperated on May first, four
hundred planes from the Eighth Air Force took part in
Operation Chowhound,
but Charlie and Danny’s crew was still not included. Charlie tried to calm him
down, reminding him they’d get their chance soon enough. There were only so
many flights per day, and they’d just have to wait their turn.

With each passing hour, Danny grew more agitated, his
imagination driving him crazy. It was bad enough, worrying about Anya before
all this talk of the food drops. Now each hour filled him with an intense
longing to fly over her country and help relieve the misery. When he recognized
his feelings as outright jealousy toward those already making the food drops,
he knew he was bordering some kind of ridiculous outrage.
Good thing I’m not
a drinking man or I’d be three sheets in the wind by now.

  Not that he would or could. With missions pending on each
early morning weather call, the red light blared brightly at the Officer’s Club
on base making alcohol unavailable.

Instead, Danny used the time to write his family again. He’d
received one letter from his mother since his return, pages filled with relief
and joy and thanksgiving to know he was alive and back on base. He’d choked up
reading her letter, remembering how often he’d thought of her praying for him.
He knew those prayers were the reason he’d survived. He’d lost count of how
many times he read her letter, feeling such a profound homesickness and at the
same time, such a bittersweet conflict of emotions. Yes, he wanted to go home. He
couldn’t wait to see them all again, to bury himself in their hugs. To sit at
the dining room table and eat real food again. To see Sophie dance in
celebration at his return—and tell her of
Sweet Sophie
and the secret
joke he’d played on his crew.

How he longed to spend time with Joey—lots of time—talking
about his experiences and how much Joey had inspired him.

And Dad. He wondered how his father would react at his
homecoming. Would he be proud? Would he be emotional? He’d often thought of his
father’s awkward but meaningful embrace after driving him to the train station
when he first reported for duty. His dad would forever remain a mystery to him,
but deep in his heart, more than anything he wanted to make his father proud.

He grabbed his paper and pen and headed over to the
Officer’s Club. Writing a letter while sitting alone in his quarters would
tempt the depression which seemed to nip at his heels. At least at the Club, he
could enjoy a cup of coffee and a warm fire.

He’d written three pages when someone sat down across from
him.

“Mind if I join you?”

Danny looked up and immediately flew out of his chair and
threw a salute. “Colonel Moller, sir, yes, sir! It would be a privilege, sir!”

The Commanding Officer took a seat in the wingback chair
across from him. Danny tried to imagine how on earth he could have missed the commotion
when the colonel had arrived. He felt his face heat, wondering if everyone else
but him had failed to salute the Old Man when he entered.

“At ease, Lieutenant. Please, have a seat.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Danny sat down and tried to
gather the pages he’d dropped in all the excitement.

“Where do you call home, Lieutenant?”

“Chicago, sir.”

“Cubs or White Sox?”

“Oh, Cubs, sir. Tried and true.”

“Good man. You know I was working for Pure Oil there in
Chicago
before
I was called up for duty when this all began.”

“Yes, sir, I knew that.”

Moller smiled then pointed to the letter in Danny’s lap. “Writing
the folks?”

“Yes, sir, I am. After our
Hannover
mission on 28 March, I was MIA for about a week, and they were mighty worried.”

The colonel crossed his legs and leaned back. “MIA? You must
have been on Dick Anderson’s crew. Tremendous loss,
Anderson
. I’d
like to hear your perspective on it, if you don’t mind?”

Danny tried to bring his voice down a notch, fearing he’d squawk
like an adolescent as he told his story. He also tried to keep it brief, not
wishing to impose on Moller’s time, but the colonel seemed to have all the time
in the world.

“How is it you knew this girl—Anna, was it?”

“Anya. Anya Versteeg.” As Danny explained the long history,
he found himself growing more relaxed. At forty-five years of age, Moller came
across quite fatherly—no doubt the reason so many of his men nicknamed him the
Old Man and “Uncle Joe.” With occasional questions and comments, Moller seemed
genuinely interested in the details of his journey in
Holland
—and
Anya.

“I have tremendous respect for the Dutch Resistance,” Moller
added. “I’m not sure any of us can ever fully grasp the hardships those folks
have suffered. It’s why I’m so pleased the 390th was tapped to take part in
Chowhound. Seems to me, it’s the least we can do for them.”

“I agree, sir. I’m anxious to get over there myself.”

“I flew one yesterday, and I can tell you one thing—that’s
one mission I’ll never forget.”

Danny smiled knowing Moller’s record, flying more than forty
missions while assigned to the 390th. “Uncle Joe” was hands-on all the way—a
fact that only endeared him even more to his men.

Moller smiled then stared into the fire. “So Anya insisted
on staying there in
Holland
, despite the immense danger
and starvation?”

“Yes, sir, she did.”

“Well, I have to say I admire that kind of loyalty. I’d like
to think I’d do the same, but who’s to say? Speaks well of her character. But I
don’t suppose I need to tell you that. What are you plans, Lieutenant?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Surely you’re not planning to just go home and never see
her again?”

Danny swallowed hard. “No, sir! I could never do that, but I
don’t, uh, well I don’t . . .” He honestly didn’t know what to
say.

Moller leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his hands
wrapped around the coffee mug. “Now, I may be just an old man, but I know how
important it is to find a good woman. So I’ll ask again. What are your plans,
Lieutenant?”

“I’m not quite sure. I suppose it all depends on what
happens these next few days.” He dipped his head, embarrassed to say what was
on his heart.

Then, Colonel Joseph Moller, Commander of the 390th Bomb
Group of the Eighth Air Force, leaned across the space between them, patted
Danny on the knee, and said, “Go back for her, son. Sounds to me like she’s
worth going back for.”

As the Colonel stood, so did Danny. “Yes, sir. I’m not sure
how to do that, but—”

“Then you come see me. Understood?”

“Understood. Thank you, sir!”

The Colonel shook Danny’s hand, winked, and walked away.

Then, Lieutenant Daniel Howard McClain of
Chicago
,
Illinois
, took
a long cleansing breath . . .and smiled.

“From what I hear, you can almost walk across the sky, there
are so many
Lancasters
up there carrying food over to
Holland
,”
Charlie said, moving the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “And with
our guys up there now, I’m guessing the Dutch will see more aluminum than blue
sky. Besides, they’re probably just saving the best for last. That would be you
and me.”

“Yeah, right.”

“What, were you expecting Uncle Joe himself to ask you to
ride shotgun with him today?”

Danny rolled his eyes. “Very funny.”

“Well, I may not have as much brass, but I promise we’ll get
the job done. Hey, at least we get to fly together before all this ends. That’s
good for something, right?”

Danny spent the rest of the day reading back through his
journal. He wasn’t altogether sure why he picked up the worn leather book,
other than just a way to pass the time and get his mind off Anya. In a strange
way, the scattered entries comforted him. Sure, the abrupt end to his
relationship with
Beverly
still irked him. No guy likes
getting dumped for someone else. But as he read his own recorded thoughts and
emotions, he felt detached from that Danny McClain—as if someone he hardly knew
anymore had written those words. After his father had been beaten, why had it
taken him so long to accept the fact he’d have to wait another year to go to
college? Why had he bruised so easily after
Beverly
rejected
him? Why did he wander all over
Evanston
in the
middle of the night after Craig’s father told him his roommate had died? Who
was
that guy who let the roadblocks in his life almost destroy him? And for what?

Then, reading some of his later excerpts, he began to see a
slow but sure maturing of that young guy who seemed to always wear his heart on
his sleeve. Somewhere in those pages, he began to recognize a confident member
of the United States Army Air Force
fighting for
his country. No matter what happened in the remaining days of this war, Danny
knew he’d return home as someone quite different—stronger, prouder, wiser.

He closed the journal and decided to head over to the
Officer’s Club for a while. Just as    he opened the door of his Nissen hut,
Charlie raced up to him grinning from ear to ear.

“Danny! We’re listed! Tomorrow it’s our turn to fly
Chowhound!”